


Capriccio

by sarahgene12



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Drunken Kissing, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Not Actually Unrequited Love, and both are happy, just a soft thing I wanted to write where they smooch a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-06 02:15:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11026488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahgene12/pseuds/sarahgene12
Summary: This was going to turn into a much more intense thing but, Jim and Morse end up happy and cozy at the end so who cares? Morse's plans for a date fall through and Jim invites him out for a drink, hoping against hope that he might make up for whatever Morse wishes he got. Smooches and realizations ensue.





	Capriccio

It seemed very unlikely that a form as slight and unassuming as Morse’s could be called a force, but it felt exactly that way to Jim Strange, when he looked up from his desk one chilly Friday afternoon to find the newly-appointed Sergeant yanking his tie from around his neck as if it had started the fight. Morse’s expression was stormy, and because Jim distinctly remembered him leaving the office not twenty minutes before in a much cheerier mood, he almost chose the safe path, and very nearly stayed out of it.

“You alright, matey?”   
Morse paced, from one end of the room to the other, looking dismal. After a long enough time that Strange had started to count off the seconds, he mumbled, “Yes, I’m fine. I just…forgot something.”   
Jim grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Well, you’re not going to find it wearin’ a path through the planks, are you? Now c’mon, out with it.”

This time, Morse did look at him, still walking. “It’s not important, really. I had…plans for tonight, and they’ve fallen through.”  
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. So now all this time you thought you’d be layin’ it on, you’ve now got nothing to do, is that it?”   
Morse scowled at him, but for once Jim could tell that his whole heart wasn’t in it. One stood, and one sat, and nearly a full minute passed in silence. In that silence, Jim Strange made a decision.  
“Say, Morse?”

He lost a bit of his momentum when the young detective met his eyes, fully.  
“I mean, there’s no sense giving up the evening for lost, is there? I know it’s not what you wanted, but I’ve got nothing on tonight, and if you wanted, we could keep each other company. Nothin’ funny, obviously, just. Y’know, a drink. Something to cut our teeth on, what d’you say?”  
Morse stared at him, eyebrows raised. Jim thought he saw one corner of his mouth twitch, and for a dreadful second he was sure he was about to be laughed out of the room.   
“Er, right. No, that’d be, that’d be good.”  
“Really?”

Now the smile Jim had feared had been at his expense broke across Morse’s narrow face. “Of course! It would be good to not have to drink alone. I’d just have to pop home and change, and then we could plan to meet around seven?”  
Panicking both at a sudden sensation of light-headedness and the thought Morse could see that he was enormously relieved, Strange nodded, as calmly as he could manage. “Yeah, er yeah, it’s not far from here, actually, the Nut Tree Inn, it’s called, just out beyond St. Ann’s if you keep going out towards the fields. Kind of out in the middle of nowhere, actually. But it’s nice!”  
When Jim looked at Morse again, the scrawny sergeant’s brow was furrowed. “I’ve never been. Well erm, I’ll see you at seven, then, shall I?”

Strange nodded again, close to bursting. “Definitely! See you then.”  
Still wearing that funny expression, Morse turned and walked out of the office without another word. When Strange was sure he was gone, he lowered his head to the impeccably straightened top of his desk, pressing his forehead against the wood. He stayed like that until he could feel his heart beating normally again.

 

 

Jim arrived first, stepping out of the cab ten minutes to seven. Once he was actually stood outside the pub, he became doubtful. He knew he was taking a tremendous risk, even if Morse remained oblivious. It was perfectly ordinary to ask a fellow officer to join him for a drink at the end of the week; it was quite another thing entirely to wish for a bit of something afterwards.   
Jim rubbed his hands together against the cold, turning his back and retreating from the falling night just as a second cab pulled up behind him. 

Morse wove his way through the crowded bar, muttering apologies as he went. When he finally found Strange, it was at the further-most booth, in the corner of a nearly deserted back room. There was a mug full of something the color of cinnamon sticks waiting for him.   
Jim looked up from his own glass, which was all but untouched. “Oh, hello matey. Found your way alright?”   
“The cabby had to circle around twice to find the car park, and I think he kept the meter running for it. What is this?” This last he asked jabbing a finger at his glass. 

 

Strange took ahold of his own drink with both hands and upended it, taking three large swallows before banging it back on the table. Almost immediately, his face went plum-colored.   
“Bloody hell! That’s like fire!” Tears leaking from his eyes, Jim felt himself teetering dangerously between hysterical laughter and violent expulsion of his tea.  
Morse was watching him, eyebrows raised. “Are you alright?”  
Jim coughed once, twice. “Y-yeah, sorry about that, matey. I’d take it slow, if I was you.”  
“What exactly is this?”  
Jim shrugged, twisting the hem of his sweater in a white-knuckled fist under the table. “Blimey. I dunno, it just said house special on the board. Figured it might be some sort of cinnamon thing but I think they have the Devil himself take a piss in your glass first.”  
Morse froze, mid-sip. Jim saw him swallow once, gingerly, before setting the mug down again. The young detective’s eyes were watering. “That’s a charming way of putting it.”   
Jim felt his face growing hot, this time without the help of drink. “Sorry.”  
Morse frowned, taking another cautious sip. “Actually, it’s not so bad if you’re careful. I think it’s whiskey.” 

 

For a full minute or more, neither man spoke. Somewhere in the front room, jazz played on a portable radio. Jim tapped his foot to it absently. After another daring gulp—and a moment to catch his breath—he asked, “So what happened earlier, back at the station? I-I mean, why’d you leave and come back in?”   
Morse sighed, and took another drink before answering. Strange noticed a high pink blush filling in the shadows of those sharp cheek bones; feeling a little dizzy he copied Morse and raised his glass again.   
“I, erm, I had a date, actually. Was supposed to have a date, I mean. She called last minute and canceled. S’no problem, really, I didn’t even know her that well.”  
Jim smacked his lips. “Mm sorry about that, matey. Smarts, don’t it? Gettin’ j-jilted like that. Wounds a man badly, that does. His pride, I mean.”

 

Morse tilted his head back and drained his glass. Jim watched him for a moment, wide-eyed, before doing the same, and slamming the mug down hard on the stained wood table.   
“Right! D’think you can handle another one of those bastards?” Jim asked, thinking somewhere in his blurred mind that he’d never seen Morse properly smashed, and that they were both close to just that. But Morse shook his head.  
“No, no, I’ll end up on my back. I’d ask for a beer but I’m afraid it’d come back with a knife sticking out of it.” Morse giggled at his own joke. Strange smacked both hands down on the table and pushed himself to his feet.   
“I’ve got beer at home, lots of beer, any kind you want. Free-flowin’ til close, aye, matey?” The words were tumbling out of Jim’s mouth before he could stop them, and he felt like smacking himself. That was before he saw Morse grinning at him. And he was certain he’d never seen that before. 

 

 

Jim sat rigid and silent the entire cab ride back to his place. Out of the crowd and noise of the pub he didn’t feel quite so drunk, and during the fifteen-minute drive back into town he watched Morse, who was pink-faced and more cheerful than he’d ever appeared to be on duty. It made something low in Strange’s chest ache terribly, as much as he seemed to be getting what he wanted.   
As they turned the last corner before their destination, he tapped Morse’s shoulder. “I should probably say, matey. It’s my parents’ place. Mum’s gone to see Dad at hospital, so I’ve been on me own for the past week. It’s nothing serious, his heart’s just got a bit twingy. So. Just so you know, then.”  
Morse studied him for a moment, saying nothing. He’d worn a perpetual expression of weary bliss on his face since they’d left the pub, and had silently watched the world go by from his window while Strange fidgeted beside him.   
“There’s nothing wrong with that, is there? Are they nice, your parents?”   
Strange bent to pay the driver, hurrying over to Morse’s side of the car. He managed to both open the door and reach out a cautious hand to make sure the young detective didn’t spill out onto the pavement.   
“Mum and Dad? Oh yeah, they’re great! Getting on a bit, y’know, and Mum doesn’t like me bein’ out at all hours chasin’ down the baddies. But Dad’s the one encouraged me to join up, said the pittance pay is worth the pride of wearin’ the badge. He almost cried when I got me Sergeant’s. D’you need a hand, matey?”   
He had to bend his knees a little to be equal height with Morse, but when he did, Morse slung one arm over his shoulder and leaned into him. Strange’s cheeks burned, and he was grateful for the cover of night. 

“Maybe some coffee to start with, ay? Clear your head a bit.” Once inside the door, Strange led Morse through the dark, reaching out his free hand for the lamp.   
“Black for me, thanks. No sugar. Is it cold in here?”   
Jim exhaled forcefully, puffing a lock of Morse’s hair away from his mouth, and cursed. “Yeah, I think the gas has gone off. I haven’t been in since yesterday, must’ve forgotten to pay the meter. Sorry, matey. Do you need a jacket or something?”   
Morse hummed something that might’ve been a yes. Jim found the lamp, switched it on; the room presented itself in a muted amber glow. He pulled his guest towards the sofa, taking care not to bang Morse’s shins on the side table (his feet all but dragged behind him; it was lucky Morse seemed to weigh little more than a cat).   
“Alright now, go slow. I’m going to let go of you, are you ready?” Jim thought his voice shook. Morse’s arm was tight around the back of his neck; he bent at the knees in front of the couch, moving the arm thus far supporting Morse’s shoulder to further down around the skinny policeman’s waist. Like this, they might’ve been paused in an awkward but intimate dance. Morse’s head rolled on his neck. Strange let go. 

Morse let out a surprised “oof!” as he hit the cushions, but otherwise seemed unharmed. He looked up at Jim and smiled blearily. Jim returned the look quickly and made off immediately for the kitchen, and his rooms.   
“I’ll just pop the coffee on and get something to warm you up, and I’ll be right back in there, alright matey?” Silence. With any luck, Morse had fallen straight to sleep.   
Once the coffee was started, Strange snuck past the sitting room and up the stairs to his room. When he found what he wanted, he descended again, avoiding the spot on the landing which always squeaked.   
“I know it’ll be a bit big for ya, matey, but I thought you might— Morse?”  
The couch was unoccupied.   
“Do you have anything to put on other than these jazz albums? Who collects this sort of rubbish?”   
Morse stood with his back to Strange, inspecting the shelves on the far wall, which were full to bursting with record albums. None of which seemed to be to his liking.  
Feeling equal parts relieved and insulted, Jim walked across the room, one of his own jumpers balled in his hands. “You’re not going to find any of your opera in there, if that’s what you’re wonderin’. My dad’s the big collector, he’s even seen a couple of these guys live, back in their prime. I’ve added a few of me own in there, too. Here, try this on.”  
Morse took the offered jumper and unfolded it, holding it at arms’ length in front of him. He studied it for a moment, head cocked to one side. “Is this yours?”   
Feeling a little sick, Jim nodded. “Y-yeah, but it’s clean! Promise.” 

Morse gave it another moment’s inspection before raising his arms and pulling it over his head. Jim had been right. It was a bit big. The collar sat in the very middle of Morse’s scrawny shoulders, the bottom hem fell halfway to his knees, and the sleeves hid all but the tips of his fingers.   
Morse folded his arms across his chest and hugged himself, inhaling deeply. “Oh, that’s wonderful. Much better.”   
Jim could have fainted dead away. “G-good! I’m glad!” With his stomach doing backflips, he turned back to the portable, and the shelves of records. “ B-but like I said, matey, you’re not going to find any Mozart in here. We might have some big band stuff, if that’s closer.”  
Morse wrinkled his nose. Jim suddenly found it very difficult to take him seriously, swimming in a woolen maroon parachute, as he seemed to be. He also found it hard not to stare at the line of freckles smattering the bridge of Morse’s nose, and not be utterly charmed by them.   
“I’ll keep looking, then,” muttered Morse. With that, he turned his back to Strange. 

 

When Jim returned from the kitchen clutching two mugs of coffee, it was to find Morse still standing in front of the player. His head was tilted to one side, and he was listening.   
“This isn’t bad, actually,” he conceded, almost in a whisper. He seemed to be swaying slightly, though whether that was from the whiskey or the record Jim couldn’t be sure.   
“I’m surprised you like that one, actually. You know James Brown?” Strange asked, coming up on Morse’s left and setting the mugs of coffee on the nearby shelf. Morse shook his head.   
“He’s more rock and roll than jazz, of course, and me mum doesn’t know I’ve got this or it’d be all smashed up in the bin. And the live ones are a bit wild, compared to the studio stuff.”   
Morse laid his hands upon the cabinet holding the player, and closed his eyes. Jim could scarcely breathe. It only got worse when the next song began to play.   
“Try me, try me….Darlin' tell me…..I neeeed you. Try me, try me….” 

Jim swallowed, his throat tight. Before he could think about it, before he could stop himself, he reached out and wrapped his arms around Morse’s waist. He pulled Morse close to his chest, unable to believe he’d dared do such a thing; praying it would be alright.   
His heart sank when he felt Morse’s whole body go rigid. Then, quietly: “Jim?”   
Immediately he dropped his arms, pushed himself back, retreated towards the couch. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t—I dunno why I did that, please don’t—” He chanced a glance upwards, sensing Morse watching him.   
Morse was supporting himself against the cabinet, swaying a little where he stood. Morse picked up one of the mugs of coffee and drank from it, then set it back down, frowning a little. Jim sank into the couch, cheeks burning red. He would have stood up and run, if it wasn’t his own house. Between them, James Brown crooned low and slow. 

Morse didn’t speak, didn’t walk out; he cleared his throat, loudly. When Jim looked up, Morse had his back to him again, still swaying a little from side to side, head tilted slightly to one side. As if he expected Strange to be back where he had been before, he turned his head just enough to look over his shoulder at the shaking sergeant. His eyes were nearly half-closed, his narrow face softened by drink. His eyes, the color of deep waters, no longer looked at Strange with their usual dull expression of impatience, glittering with something else entirely. 

Or so Jim wanted desperately to believe. When Morse turned back yet again, seemingly watching the record spin, the needle slip, Jim stepped forward again on liquid knees and feet like lead. He could hear himself breathing, thought he could hear Morse too, but that didn’t matter. The next record dropped, and it was slow, sweet jazz, something Morse would never have put on, he was sure—  
Jim wrapped his arms once more around Morse’s chest, secretly delighted by how easily Morse’s narrow back fitted against him, how his pale, freckled shoulder looked next to soft, woolen red. Scarcely remembering to breathe, he pulled Morse closer still and lowered his head, brushing his lips along the side of Morse’s neck.   
Had the two of them been completely sober, had it been earlier in the evening, it mightn’t have happened so easily. Morse leaned his head back against Strange’s shoulder, exposing more of his neck to Jim’s warm mouth, and hummed through pressed lips when Jim kissed higher, covering light brown freckles, following them like a map up to just under Morse’s ear. When he reached it, he pursed his lips and blew softly.

Now Morse moaned, quietly but it was there, his hands leaving the top of the cabinet and sticking straight out in front of him like shocked animals, his whole body stretching to allow Jim even more access to his throat; he was nearly on tiptoes, his head rolled back on Strange’s shoulder, while Strange smeared kisses as far as he could reach.   
He don’t know where he summoned the courage from to do it, but the moment he could feel Morse press his back harder against his chest, Jim let his arms drop from around Morse’s chest just long enough to get a strong grip on the Morse’s narrow shoulders, and spin him round.   
Jim couldn’t believe what he saw. The borrowed jumper had been pulled down off of one shoulder, which was already damp and pink from his mouth, and Morse’s own mouth was slack, his cheeks rose-colored, his eyes bright. He stared.   
Morse’s hands were shaking. They were at his sides now but they beat out a silent, frantic rhythm as the two of them stood, both too breathless to think.   
Jim’s eyes dropped helplessly to Morse’s lips, and all at once he could remember all the times he’d stared at them before, though from much, much further away.   
Morse lifted his hands, still shaking, from his sides, and draped his long fingers across the back of Jim’s neck. He did it slowly, deliberately, even smiling a little when he felt Jim’s muscles tense. 

Strange reached up and cupped one hand against Morse’s cheek. He pressed his palm against the sharp angle of Morse’s jaw, still unable to believe this was real, realizing with a thrill of his heart that he could see himself reflected in Morse’s brilliant blue-green eyes.   
Now Morse’s eyes dropped, and just the tip of his tongue peeked out, licking quickly across his bottom lip, wetting it. That was enough.   
With his other hand, Jim pulled Morse even closer to him, crushing their bodies together and finally, finally closing the gap between their mouths.   
It was slow, and sweet, their bodies moving without either really realizing it towards the settee. Jim thought he might be spinning but put it down to the booze and the fact that Morse was kissing him, kept on kissing him, until with a muted shock he felt the edge of the couch knock the back of his knees.   
He was about to ask ….. something, when Morse murmured, “You first.”   
The fog cleared a little. “You what?” Jim pulled back regretfully, staring. Morse was blushing, a rare, treasured sight; with little doubt as to his intentions this time, he pointed his chin at the crumpled couch again. “I thought…. Please lie down?”  
Strange realized he was being instructed, though in a much sleepier, half-hearted way than how Morse usually gave orders. Letting go of Morse’s waist, he sat slowly down on the sofa, propped his legs up on one end, and laid his head on a pillow on the other. 

Morse’s face lit up with an expression of surprise and delight unlike anything Jim had ever seen, at least on that face. With one arm outstretched, the other swinging loosely at his side, he wove his way to the couch. Before Jim could realize what he was doing, he’d already done it.   
Morse swung his leg up onto the sofa, and then the other, and pressed his hands into the pillow under Jim’s head. Honey-blonde curls tickled Jim’s forehead as Morse drew himself down, planting a quick but still tender kiss on the sergeant’s slack mouth.   
Jim raised his head, one hand sneaking from his side to bury itself in Morse’s hair, and held that infuriatingly brilliant head, those freckled, pale cheeks, and the mouth he’d up until now only wondered about, close enough to his own that he might kiss it more deeply.   
He heard, and felt, Morse sighing, felt his thin, angular body moving around on top of his own, getting comfortable, and nearly fainted dead away with a sudden, powerful, devastatingly strong feeling of joy.


End file.
